


Nocturne

by Miss M (missm)



Category: Don Carlos - Friedrich Schiller
Genre: Ambiguous Relationships, Grief/Mourning, Jealousy, M/M, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-21 11:17:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17042720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missm/pseuds/Miss%20M
Summary: Robbed of sleep, the King of Spain confronts his own heart and is confronted in turn.





	Nocturne

**Author's Note:**

  * For [iberiandoctor (jehane)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehane/gifts).



> Happy Yuletide! I hope this hits the spot. 
> 
> Set after the end of the play, so canon-compliant. Thanks so much to Tetley for the cheerleading and beta.

The night over Madrid is dark and soft, glittering with stars like a costly velvet cloak littered with gems. It is a night for lovers, dreamers, happy fools; rich or poor, knight or peasant, any man may gaze at that jewel-lined sky, breathe that still-warm air, and revel in its all-encompassing beauty.

Any man, that is, except the King.

Philip of Spain, robbed of sleep, cannot enjoy the beauty that delights even the lowliest of his subjects; even this simple pleasure is denied him. Standing alone on his balcony, his pages all asleep inside his chambers, he knows himself once again barred from the joys which ordinary men take for granted. 

A faithful wife, a loving son, a true friend -– a simple soldier may have such things, a woodcutter may have them, a fisherman, a smith, but the King of Spain may not. 

He is alone, more alone than ever, and beauty no longer moves him. 

The warm wind rustles his hair, the way a human hand might, if anyone in his court would have the audacity to touch him so freely, so playfully. The Queen would not, that traitorous Jezebel, as cold in marriage as she burns with sin. Nor the Crown Prince, that snake nourished at Philip’s own breast, unworthy blood of his blood. Let them rot in their cells, let them tremble and wail under the Inquisition’s ministrations. Why should he have mercy on their plight?

Only one man, he thinks, only one man would have been so bold, only one man would have dared to touch Philip with the reverence of a friend and not that of a subject: a man whose spirit was as free as the night wind, and as impossible to capture.

But this man now lies cold and dead, slain at Philip’s bidding, and never again shall his world be moved by the brazen Marquis of Posa. 

Philip closes his eyes against the sight of his castle spread out beneath him, and the city beyond; it seems to mock him in his loneliness. Everyone, everything around him turns to treason, most of all his own heart! Hidden, neglected, scorned by himself as well as others: such is the fate to which it is condemned. And now it is taking its revenge, depriving him of sleep, tormenting him with guilt, this pitiful heart that still cannot help but call out for the one whom it thought to be its saviour. 

But Posa was no saviour. He schemed with the Prince, covering his crimes; thus he betrayed his king and his country, but most of all he betrayed Philip’s heart, bestowed without reserve for the first time in his life. A paltry gift it may have seemed to Posa, but if he only had known…

“Foolish old man!” Philip mutters to himself. “They are all against you, they are all courting their own fortune. Never forget that you are alone.”

And yet, the longing within him is so strong that it almost seems to take on a presence of its own. Standing like this, eyes closed, he can imagine that the wind playing in his hair is not the wind; that he is not alone here on his balcony, that someone is with him, his spirit unbound in death as it was in life.

“You have come to me,” he says, voice low, and the answer is as light as a feather against his ear: “Because you wished it, Sire.”

Involuntarily, he smiles. “No. What power does the King have to command the dead? You came to me by your own volition.”

“That may be so, Sire,” the Marquis says softly. “But that is the only way you will ever have me: by my own volition.”

Despair wells up in Philip then. “I will never have you!” he says, hating the way his voice breaks. “It is too late now, everything is too late. I have lost you forever, and for what? For _him?_ ” 

There is silence anew. He shudders; he is angry. Carlos, Carlos took Posa from him, just as he took Elizabeth from him; Carlos, that weakling, that silly boy! How could Carlos ever be worthy of a man like Posa?

But no. Posa did not die for Carlos, he reminds himself. The Marquis of Posa would only bend knee to his own ideals; no foolish youth could compel him to such a sacrifice. Carlos was but a pawn, a piece in a game --

“You are wrong, my King,” the Marquis breathes, and he shudders again, violently. “Carlos embodies my dreams, the dreams of my youth, our youth. Oh, if you could have known him as he was then, Sire, properly known him -– what a noble spirit he was, the sort that would take the blame for another’s misdeeds as if they were his own! There was such loftiness in him, such vision.”

The words fill Philip’s mouth with sour jealousy. He spits it out: “You loved him.” 

“Yes.” The answer as frank as ever, as unafraid. “And I always will.”

“I cannot understand it,” he grounds out. “Why would you love the Prince, and not the King?” 

“But I did not love the Prince, my Liege,” the voice murmurs in his ear, or in his mind, or both; he knows no longer whether he is dreaming or awake. “I loved the boy, and then the man, because his heart sought mine, and spoke to it. As yours might have spoken to mine, Sire, if you would have allowed it to.”

A sob escapes Philip; he covers his mouth with his hand. “Lies!” he hisses. “I gave you my heart -– how could you not see it? I took you into my confidence, gave you all power, let you act on my behalf! And in return, you betrayed me, you took yourself from me, you forced my hand –- and you dare, _dare_ to think I did not love you!” 

A gust of wind causes the hairs on the back of his neck to stand up, as if affected by some cool, ethereal touch. 

“You loved the challenge in me, Sire,” comes the whisper, even closer and softer now. “You wanted to possess me, command my mind as well as my body, because you could not. And if I had granted you your wish, you would have come to despise me.” 

“Never!” It comes out more forcefully than intended; he leans on the railing in front of him to steady himself. “I cannot despise you even now, in death, after you betrayed my trust, just like everyone else.”

“Not like everyone else,” the Marquis counters, voice low and relentless, “for I did not seek my own gain, and I never lied to you about my ideals. No matter what you think, I was loyal to you -– to the man I saw in you, the man you could have been. I hated the thought of you as a tyrant, my King.”

His hands tighten around the railings. “My name is Philip.”

Another pause, long enough for him to start wondering whether he is deserted once more. The thought fills him with dread. He bends his head, feeling his nostrils flare, trembling like a nervous horse. No one has ever affected him thus; even in death, the Marquis of Posa is more powerful than any living man. 

Then, another chill breeze, this time along his cheek, like the caress of an unseen hand.

“There is still time,” the voice murmurs, as close as if he were speaking from inside of Philip’s own soul. “The Queen and the Prince have yet to meet their fate at the Inquisition’s hands. Pardon them.”

He jerks back, heart beating wildly. “More treason!” he cries, desperate for more of that closeness and yet terrified. “You wish to save my enemies? Even now, you are trying to cause my ruin!” 

“No, my Philip,” whispers the Marquis of Posa. The words fall to the depths of his heart and echo throughout it. “I am trying to save the man I still see in you.” 

A final gust of wind against his neck –- and then there is silence.

For minutes, the King of Spain dares not move. When he finally opens his eyes, it is with caution, as if he is fearful of breaking a spell. He looks to one side, then to another; at length he turns, but there is no one on the balcony with him: he is alone. 

Head bowed, lost in thought, he remains still for a long time, until at last the stars are fading away, one by one, into the darkness that heralds dawn. At last, he enters his chambers, where the pages are beginning to stir, to find some rest until such time as he is ready to give his orders.


End file.
